And I’m running now, and coughing and hacking and she’s like Fucking Peppy LePew springing along,

Da-dup Da-dup

I’m almost to where she is and she’s farther away,

Like she stretches time, like a space jump,

Past the old Theatre Paris, Voodoo Doughnut, Berbatti’s Pan

And I feel like I’m slogging through heavy mud

And bums with cans

And tourists and Old Town pushers:

“What do ya need bro? What do you need man?”

And my feet are weighted with lead now and my joints feel rusty, Then I catch sight of her heading back toward the Burnside bridge! Our eyes meet and she’s gone as a streetcar goes by, I dash and dance

and ache and the streetcar is past and

There it is: Another Full Reveal

The glorious Saturday Market, In full tilt

Throngs of undulating crowds and oh shit.

The music and the noise and the guy juggling garbage cans and

cleavers and shrunken heads and oh Christ I’m never ever, ever

going to find her and there she is! In the booths! and I run and it’s

patchouli and pot and stinky candles and bam I run smack into the 7

foot tie dye guy and I smell the wet leather and Birkenstocks and I’m

high and I can’t fucking get through all the strollers! My God! The

strollers and the strollers! The kid’s got legs! Let the kid walk for

gods sake! Why won’t the kid sleep at night? because the child’s

been in your damn stroller all fucking day! He’s atrophying for

God’s sake and how does that stroller even fit in your car!

And There she is! Oh my God! By the Handmade Organic Hemp Dream Pillows, (I could really use one of those) and she’s licking her

lips now and her eyes gleam like that yellow reflection your

headlights catchand suddenly she’s a pussy cat raccoon a opossum And she’s gone and I trip over the Cat in the Hat accordion player, Jew’s harp, ukulele, banjo and the violin player is playing the same

damn Irish jig over and over again BADLY and (take me to the

bridge, where is that confounded bridge) and there!

She stands among the glass blown bongs and she slowly melts into

mist and is sucked into the carb of the tallest sweetest bong surely

used by the girl with kaleido-Lennon eyes by the turnstile and don’t

call me Shirley. And there! She’s hanging by her skin in Dean’s

Original Ear Nest in Gory Jesus Christ Pose earrings piercing her

entire body blood running down her face and her breast and her

nipple and she’s smiling

(And dipshit clipboard guy asks me if I have a few moments for the

“ethical treatment of people who need my money” and I take his

clipboard and toss it across the cobblestones)

And there she is!

In the elephant ear booth and I stumble to her and she’s in a red

checkerboard apron with her hair up sugar and powder on her cheeks

and nose and she’s cute and I say “there you are” and she says “first

an elephant ear” and I look down and she’s really handing me an

elephant ear ripped from the side of an elephant’s head, blood and

flies, and hay, and black curly hair and she laughs at the sky and her

Fangs are bared and the sky’s all purple there were people running

everywhere (and why no Prince T-shirts? They’d sell better than

Neil Young for fuck sake)

And I step back

And fall ass over teakettle into the Skidmore Fountain and the taste of

the water is McMenamin’s Hammerhead Ale which I believe is an

IPA and a horse is licking it from my face and some ancient English

bobby on the horse taps his billy against the fountain and says:

“Sir? Sir? You there! The fountain is not for bathing in I’m going to

have to ask you to leave Huphup cheerio”

And there’s a beat a beat a beat

I look across the silent market where all the crowds are gone now and

the Nike urban tumbleweed plastic bags blow across the tracks but

there’s no wind

And the bobby is now on a people mover and he quietly slides across

a vacant Waterfront Park and there’s nothing, nothing

And she stands in front of me now

And the quiet of the Willamette is lapping against the retaining wall

And she’s closer now,

And the Rose Festival Sailors are saluting me,

As she’s closer,

And the strippers on the Morrison Bridge throw roses in the waves

As she puts her lips to mine,

And she’s got fangs

And reaches into my hair

And she’s got fangs

And The Couv is burning to the ground in the distance

And she’s got Fangs

And she pulls my head back and sideways and I see through her red

hair an image, a man’s face,

And I lock on the eyes of a Plaque of Bud Clark

And I reflect his sweet curly mustached St. Nick smile as I now look

up to the clouds the lovely ubiquitous clouds breaking open a drizzly Portland ubiquitous rain and her ubiquitous Fangs pierce my

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